


to whatever end ;

by gryffindored



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Love, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 07:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15625683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindored/pseuds/gryffindored
Summary: bc i like to cry when i write something; an envisionment of rowan and aelin's wedding consummation in empire of storms





	to whatever end ;

It was a somber sort of affair.

Lysandra and Aedion witnessed the matrimony, both watching with a careful eye. Aedion offered no protestations upon being woken before dawn and watched his Queen with careful adoration; Lysandra was teary-eyed, in spite of the situation. There were no flowery vows to be said, no special ceremony aside from what was required by law. The captain had announced them husband and wife, the promise accepted with a chaste kiss, and all were quick to sign the documents where needed.

Rowan’s hand was warm when it found the small of Aelin’s back as she signed her name, a flourish of letters making up the identity she fought so long against. She felt his mouth dip by her ear, not for a kiss but for a murmured reminder: “To whatever end.”

“To whatever end,” Aelin whispered back, staring down at the paper as it was his turn to sign. She watched with a pang as his name wound alongside hers. Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius.

The captain was gone after signing his own paperwork, a vow of secrecy that Aelin had had drawn up. Lysandra and Aedion were quick to excuse themselves to their rooms, the latter scenting an urgency from his King and Queen.

An urgency that then, back in their cabin, sat between the married couple.

The walls were painted with pre-dawn light, grey and murky and tinged with the promise of sunshine gold. The air was heavy with what awaited them — the battle, the destruction, the uncertainty of what each being involved would walk away with.

“I wish —” Aelin started, standing before him; but the list was long and she didn’t know where to start.

“I know.” Rowan’s voice was rough and low as he drew her to him. Her heart raced and she knew he could feel it, hear it. One hand settled warm on her back, guiding the both of them to the bed. It creaked under the weight of them. “I know, Fireheart. Me, too.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” she said softly, legs tucked against his thighs while arms clung tight around his shoulders. She bumped her nose against his, their eyes meeting.

So much sat unspoken between them, and time was not on their side. She kissed him quick, light. Her nostrils were full of his scent and she breathed it into her lungs: the snow and pine that he carried with him and felt like home. Aelin pulled back from him briefly to peel her tunic from her body and then the band of fabric around her chest. Her bare skin was painted in the illumination of a burgeoning dawn, catching streaks of bluish-silver light that passed through the curtain. The light continued to paint her skin as she danced her fingers over his arms.

Rowan’s hands responded in kind, and in the blink of an eye she was beneath him with her back against the mattress. Green eyes flashed with a familiar feral ferocity that had her fumbling with the hem of his own shirt. Once the fabric was discarded, landing with a dull thump somewhere on their floor, her fingers returned to his hot skin. Fingertips raked with deliberate pressure down his chest, catching on the angles of his abdomen.

“Dawn’s coming,” he muttered regretfully, laced with a hint of frustration. His eyes drank her in reverently, eliciting a string of chills that passed along her skin.

(Time was against them. Always against them. But Aelin knew that from the beginning, knew that the very nature of everything they could ever have would merely be borrowed.)

“And so will we be if you’ll stop with the worshipping,” she quipped in spite of herself, and the smirk that painted Rowan’s features warmed her better than her own flame ever could.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day where Aelin Galathynius denied worship.”

She saw the flicker cross his features as they both wondered how many days more either of them would see, once gold took over and the sky shone with the breaking day. But she couldn’t think on it. It elicited too much hope. None of it was right, she knew. They were denied a ceremony, celebration. She was denied a dress. They were denied family, those existing and the one they could create together. All because of destiny. Rutting, gods-damned destiny. Aelin fought to push that from her mind and reminded herself that it was a political move, right now. She was securing her queendom, securing a life for those she loved best. For so long she’d been selfish, and if this was her chance to repent it all then Aelin was ready.

“We’ll have plenty of time for worship, husband.” The words were for him, a lie. A damned lie.

But she didn’t give him time to consider her face before Aelin’s hands were tugging his mouth to hers. She moaned into him, fingers snaking to his neck where skin met soft locks of silver. She nipped at his lip, kissing him hard. As if it were the last time. Rowan, bless him, didn’t even hesitate. A rough hand traveled from her cheek to her breast, palming her with a fervor she felt growing elsewhere, too.

Time — they didn’t have time, and she needed this claiming. This consummation. So Aelin arched into him, moaning again. She knew precisely what sounds, what timbers of throaty cries would unwind him. And so she worked with that knowledge while his hands roamed and worshipped as quickly as they could.

“Off,” she demanded in a breathy exhale, fumbling with the buttons of his pants. He took over, but not before she could deliberately brush against the hard length that was constrained. A low sound rumbled in his chest, and Aelin couldn’t help the smirk on her lips.

The couple worked in tandem, the room filled with the sounds of panting and buttons and fabric being stripped from bodies. More gold threatened to spill into the room, the color marking Aelin as morning light persisted. Heavy eyes dipped down to the space between them, her gaze taking in the male above her before drifting up to find him staring back at her.

“You’re mine,” she reminded him, her voice rough with desire. The words combined with the curling of her fingers around his length caused him to shudder. “And I’m yours,” she added, unable to keep the desperation from her tone as she guided him to her opening.

“You love me,” Rowan continued, shifting his hips until he was inside her. Aelin would never tire of the way he filled her. She moved her legs to wrap them around his waist, able, now, to get the full length of his hardness within her. She squeaked out a moan, high pitched and ephemeral, as he thrust slowly, allowing her hot body to adjust. Rowan groaned in pleasure at the noise, a hand settling beside her head to prop himself up with. She turned until her mouth could catch his wrist, scattering warm kisses. It was an intimate need to share more beyond their joining below.

“You love me,” he repeated reverently — the vows they didn’t get to share. His voice was low, marked with heavy breaths. “You are mine, and you love me.” The promise was punctuated with thrusts growing deeper, faster.

“To whatever end,” Aelin gasped, digging her heels into his back as she aimed to open herself to him more, and more, always more.

His head dipped heavy to her shoulder, silver hair tickling her skin from where it splayed and she tangled a hand into the locks ensuring he stay close to her. Her heart beat wildly as he continued to thrust into her, not slow by any means but far more intimate than she’d ever imagined given the circumstances.

“Oh, gods,” she moaned, and their magic awoke in the midst of their passions. Flame and ice tangled around them creating a steam emphasized by the heat purely physical that already filled the room.

The rhythm of his hips became more shallow, and she knew dawn was close but they were closer. She reveled in the desperation as he pounded into her and she dropped her legs from his back, thighs falling open and allowing him to hit a new mark with each thrust. But still, Aelin kept his head tucked close to her, her mouth finding his temple and brushing a hot kiss there.

They were a mess of limbs and sweat, tangled up in one another. She wasn’t sure when his free hand found hers and laced their fingers in an intimate promise, but that’s how they lay as he spilled himself into her, moving still as she found and took hold of her own pleasure.

Aelin didn’t let Rowan lift his head from the crook of her neck nor did she allow him to pull out of her until their breathing died down and the elements of their magic faded from around them. Only their passion filled the room now, the scent of their love and echos of their gasping, writhing breaths sinking into the walls and floor.

She was sure to commit the feeling to memory. Not the pleasure, necessarily, but the aftermath.

The brush of his mouth against her collarbone, her neck. The careful way he lifted himself from her, maintaining contact with their hands as long as he could manage. She memorized the beads of sweat sliding down her neck behind her hair, the sensation of skin becoming unstuck from the other. And most of all, Aelin committed to memory his words, repeated again and again as he kissed her with heartbreaking softness, “You love me, you love me, you love me,” and the way he seemed to sink with relief each time she answered, “I love you.”

And it was this memory she maintained as long as she could as the darkness settled and the iron lid closed over her.


End file.
